


finished, yet

by thirteentorafters



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 16:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirteentorafters/pseuds/thirteentorafters
Summary: He's not gonna cry, not again. "He fucking left me behind."





	finished, yet

**Author's Note:**

> so my cat died during the week and i needed to write something about my feelings. sorry for this. also there may be typos but i wrote this in half an hour on the coach so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ please don't hold it against me :(

Jonny doesn't think he can cry anymore.  
  
His eyes are permanently bloodshot these days, red rimmed and painful. Probably puffy. He hasn't looked in the mirror for days, weeks. His fingers shake. His whole body does, even on the ice; Mike's tried time and again to get it to stop.   
  
"There's no use," Jonny tells him, matter-of-fact. "I can still play."  
  
Mike gives him a sideways looks, but he doesn't say what's been bouncing around the front office since --  
  
Since.   
  
_For now._  
  
When he steps onto the ice for practice he pretends he can't feel the eyes on him, the way Seabs and Duncs hover just out of line of sight. Jonny let's the anger fuel his play, forcing himself to the brink, to the point he can feel the tremors increase as he takes a breather against the boards.   
  
When he tugs off a glove to take a drink, he misses the bottle and grits his teeth, swipes it from the bench. It's fucked up and he hates it, hates this stupid damn tremor, hates.  
  
Just fucking hates this.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Nobody expects you to be here." Seabs is a foot away and Jonny doesn't jump, jams his hand into his glove even though Seabs probably knows. They all know. "It wouldn't hurt to take a few days."  
  
"And do what?" Jonny's lip curls, nasty, because the anger in his chest has nowhere else to go. "Nothing's gonna change what happened. I'd rather be here than lying around in fucking silence."  
  
There's a knowing look in Seabs' eye. "If you need to talk--"  
  
"Christ," Jonny snaps and pushes off the boards, skates back out onto open ice. The last thing he wants to do is talk. All he's done is talk.  
  
To his parents. To David. To Donna and Erica and Jessica and Jackie and, and, and.  
  
The ice feels like the only place he doesn't have to talk; where he can yell and demand and piss everybody off, but he doesn't have to talk.  
  
Unless it's to the media.   
  
Playing means having to deal with the media scrum, with questions and comments and   
  
"So how have you been handling this?"  
  
Jonny doesn't know who asked the question, just wants to punch them square in the face. "How do you think?"   
  
It's out before he can stop it and there's a headline he's going to regret in the morning - Toews unhinged by loss of teammate - but he doesn't care.   
  
"Do you think you were playing for him out there tonight. The points you netted -"  
  
"No," Jonny says shortly. "I always play better when I'm pissed off."  
  
He regrets it as soon as he says it. He's tired, filter lost somewhere between the last time he slept and now, and he clenches his hands into fists.  
  
There's a hand on his shoulder then, steering him away from the media, and Jonny doesn't stick around to hear what's being said, just stalks into the showers and let's the water beat out whatever anger is left.  
  
Unfortunately for him, Seabs and Duncs are waiting. Duncs is perched on the edge of his locker bench, typing something on his phone. Seabs is watching the showers, hit Duncs when he catches sight of Jonny.  
  
Jonny hates them, suddenly and fiercely, for thinking he needs their help. Hates more that they're right, that he's falling apart and leaving pieces of himself all over the fucking place.  
  
"That was a mess," Duncs says without preamble. "Bullshit too."  
  
"No it wasn't." Jonny's aiming for nasty but just sounds exhausted. He sinks onto his own bench and stares at the wall above Duncs' shoulder. "I am angry."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Jonny gives Seabs a dry look. "Because I forgot to do my laundry."  
  
Seabs raises an eyebrow. "He didn't do anything wrong."  
  
Keeping his mouth closed on everything that wants to fall out, Jonny tugs on a shirt before realising it's a Henley, out of shape because it's not his and fuck, fuck.  
  
Seabs has a knowing look on his face. "There was nothing he could have done."  
  
"You can't blame a guy for circumstances out of his control." Duncs agrees. "Jonny, if you think for one second he wouldn't be here now."  
  
"Well he's not," Jonny snaps, tugging at the Henley as if it's burning his skin and chokes off the lump in his throat. God, he's not gonna cry, not again. "He fucking left me behind."

Duncs mutters something but Jonny's already buried his face in his hands, desperately trying to get his breathing under control.   
  
"Jonny," Seabs says, his voice sympathetic and kind. He drops his hand into Jonny's shoulder. "You're allowed to be angry."  
  
Jonny huffs out a wry laugh. "I lied." He looks up, looks Seabs in the eye and feels what's left of his heart break. "I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at the situation, at - at hockey, but not him."  
  
Seabs seems to understand. He doesn't say anything else about it, just tightens his grip on Jonny's shoulder. "The coach went ahead. We can grab a cab to the hotel."  
  
Jonny nods, numb as he changes into the rest of his clothes, feels sick every time he thinks about where the Henley came from.   
  
It's not until he's stumbling through the door of his hotel room, shutting the door on the rest of the world, that he falls onto the bed, clutching his phone in his hand. He's got the number on speed dial and hits it, swallows down the urge to cry _again_ and waits for the tone to ring out. He can hear the vibration in his bag on the floor.  
  
_Hey, this is Kaner. If this isn't Jonny or the fam, leave a message and I'll get back to you. If it is, call the landline, losers_.  
  
Jonny's chest seizes the instant he hears Patrick's voice, but he laughs at the end, at Patrick's entire message. Kaner. As if Jonny's the loser when Patrick's the one referring to himself by his hockey nickname without irony.   
  
His phone pings messages.   
  
J _onathan, did you swear at a reporter?_

_Patrick would have killed you for that haha._

_Are you really pissed off with him?_  
  
His mother's message can wait, Jonny doesn't wanna deal with that right now. He's glad for Jackie's humour, doesn't know what he'd do without it.   
  
But Jess' question breaks his heart.

_No. I'm pissed off because I hate being alone_.  
  
It looks stupid written down, feels even more so when he sends it but it's true. The next room over is occupied but not by anyone Jonny wants to throw open the door to. His condo is silent all the fucking time, his email and phone quiet most of the time, and the locker room is so damned empty even with a team of guys there.  
  
_I miss him too. I hate that I can't just call him._  
  
Jonny stares at his bag, thinks about the stupid gold phone case hiding a phone not in his name and feels sick. His phone vibrates in his hand.   
  
_Mom says you can come for Xmas. Understands if you can't do it._  
  
It's almost suffocating, the thought of the Kanes and their household, the noise, the clutter, the smells. Except this year, he thinks, closing his eyes against the images of one less everything and tells Jess he'll be there.   
  
It's not the same thing, not their son and brother, but he would have been and --  
  
Jonny stumbles into the bathroom, throws up what little he's eaten through the day and watches the hands he has against the toilet bowl tremor.  
  
It gets better, they say in stupid pamphlets that are supposed to help.  
  
Jonny doesn't think that's right. Can't imagine this will get better. Stop being so all-consuming, maybe, but there's a ring around his neck they never told anyone about, a Henley that smells too much like Patrick, and a gaping hole in his life where Patrick's supposed to be.  
  
"I don't hate you," Jonny says, leaning back against the bathroom wall. "But you're a dick for leaving me behind."  
  
It's useless to talk to someone who's not there, but it makes Jonny feel better to pretend if he tips his head just so, Patrick's standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his ankles and arms crossed.   
  
Pain explodes in Jonny's chest, unable to keep the tears from falling, the sobs from his throat and he buries his head in his knees.   
  
_Just one day._  
  
He'd give up hockey for just one more day.


End file.
